


Like Dark Chocolate

by MadameMiz



Series: Power Dynamics [6]
Category: Phineas and Ferb
Genre: M/M, Multi, Prosthetics, amputation mention, heinz doofenshmirtz is an actual genius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8183164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameMiz/pseuds/MadameMiz
Summary: The realization that you're the smartest person in the room isn't always satisfying.
Doofcest AU, Heinz contemplates Perryborg.





	

“Why did you build him that way?”

You’re not sure what makes you blurt out the question, and you instantly regret it. You watch from across the room as your other self pauses his conversation with his general mid-word. His good eye narrows questioningly. Perryborg turns to face you, his stance ready to attack or leap to his master’s defense should it become necessary. Your stomach twists uncomfortably.

Watching Perryborg the past few days has been… difficult. Day in and day out you quietly observe him lumber back and forth on his mismatched feet, tracing your eyes over every bolt and welded seem, scrutinizing. His ungainly body glints and shines distractingly every time he’s in the room with you.

Your counterpart is obviously waiting for you to continue, but Perryborg’s vaguely disapproving expression holds you back. You never want to speak when you’re around him.

He’s quickly losing patience, though, and begins to tap his foot. “ _What?_ ”

“Perryborg,” you finally manage to say.

The dictator glances over to his servant. “What about him?”

“Weeell,” you try, and then steal yourself. Your curiosity has been getting the better of your, and it’s now or never. “Just, why all the excess? Why the inefficient design? I mean, your arms seem to be fine, so surely you could have made Perryborg less,” you wave your hands, trying to find the right word, “ _Frankenstein_ -y.”

You wait for the anger to start, for yelling or a cold glare or anything, but your other self just looks lost. His head is tilted at an angle, his face twisted in familiar confusion.

“My _arms_?”

“Yeah! I mean, you did a great job rebuilding them, they move so naturally. Why not give that same sort of fluidity to Perryborg? I mean, I get it, he looks in _tim_ idating, but surely he’d be able to do his job better if… If he…Um,” you mumble, suddenly very aware of your face staring back at you, slowly lighting up with dawning realization.

You stare at his hands as your face begins to mirror his. Oh.

In an instant, he’s crossed the vast floor of his office. He takes one of your hands in his and turns it over, inspecting, moving each of your fingers.

“How?” he asks. He tries to hide how impressed he is, but you know your own face better than that.

You swallow. “The right arm from a mauling when I was a kid. The left was amputated when it got crushed by a boulder. It was a hiking accident, I had to—I had to sever that one myself,” you say, trying very hard to dissociate yourself from the memory.

He doesn’t offer any sympathy, though you didn’t expect it. He only hums softly and nods his head, caught up in rapt curiosity that makes his face look both softer and scarier. He reminds you very much of a child, and you know firsthand how cruel children can be. For one terrifying moment, you’re scared he might to to pull the entire arm out of socket, or haul you away to some cold slab to be tied down, for your circuitry to be painfully splayed out and tampered with. He does no such thing, though.

Your eyes dart to Perryborg, who stares on impassively, and you’re grateful your counterpart doesn’t seem to catch your glance.

His fingers—his real, flesh and blood fingers—trace your palm and, gently, more gently than he’s been during your entire stay, he brings one of your hands up to his face. He presses it over his ear, his palm flat over yours, and listens to the faint _whrrr_ of synthetic muscle. He never answered your original question, seems to have forgotten it entirely, but in a flash, you know.

He didn’t make Perryborg better because he _couldn’t_. He doesn’t know how.

For all his natural charisma, for all his confidence and cold efficiency, he simply doesn’t have the imagination or skill to take his greatest creation to his full potential.

This is where you’re supposed to gain a surge of confidence and superiority, you’re sure. This is when you should gloat, give him a taste of his own medicine, but somehow, that doesn’t feel right. More than anything, you just feel bitter, almost… disappointed. Again your eyes flash over to Perryborg. His face has shifted, just slightly, and you can’t decipher his expression as he quietly surveys the scene. For a dizzying moment, all the terrible metal falls away in your mind’s eye–all you can see is your own nemesis, still soft and organic, and you wonder what could have been. You could have done so much better.

You keep the thought to yourself.


End file.
